


When The Job's All Done

by ThePornProject



Series: Pie with Dean Filling [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, M/M, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePornProject/pseuds/ThePornProject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's surprisingly tolerant of slow-n-sweet when he's exhausted.  Sam shamelessly takes advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Job's All Done

If Dean were a better man he'd feel guilt over kicking out the back of Sam's knee to buy himself an extra few precious seconds to hit the bathroom first. But he's not and he doesn't and the great thing about staying in a place with decent pressure (besides, you know, _decent pressure_ ) is the fact that the sound of the shower nicely drowns out Sam's cursing. “You kiss your mother with that mouth Sammy-boy?” he yells, and the indistinct bitching spikes to an annoyed 'fuck you'. It makes Dean smile.

  
  


He takes as long as he damn well pleases in there. The last hunt took them through swamp and there's little Dean likes less than swamp mud in his ass crack or between his toes. That's how you get trench foot. Trench-ass? Is there a- He pulls his mind from that topic quite quickly.

  
  


About three minutes before he reckons that Sam will start considering kicking the door in, Dean ambles out, one towel low on his waist.

  
  


“Fucking finally!” Sam explodes. “What did you need to exfoliate?” There is one chair at the little motel table that'll need to be professionally cleaned, seat soaked through with gunk. In the corner, Dean's boots and shirt are dripping a muddy puddle that's doing the green-plaid carpet no favors. The bleached-white bedsheets and comforters are, fortunately, unsplattered.

  
  


“Effortless beauty my man,” Dean says and grins. Sam stomps past, dripping swamp and trailing fumes, before slamming the bathroom door shut. Dean would put money on the odds that Sam's spitting on Dean's toothbrush and running his razor over his balls. Bitch. He's lucky Dean's way too tired to plot revenge.

  
  


It's been a rough week and the motel bed feels like heaven when Dean drops into it, uncaring of blankets. The towel tries it's hardest to stay wrapped around him but is really no match for Dean's determined spread-eagle and eventually gives in, resigned to do not much more than barely sit on his ass. The running shower is soothing in its normalcy and Dean finds his eyes drooping closed, time ambling by in fits. He's only barely conscious when the water stops and the bathroom door wafts curls of steam into the room.

  
  


He's very awake when six-foot-ridiculous of Samsquatch lands on his back.

  
  


“Gerroff!” he grunts. “I have dibs.” A flailing hand misses Sam's face and smacks at his shoulder instead. It isn't particularly effective.

  
  


“Too bad.” Sam yawns directly into Dean's ear and makes a smacking noise he hates. “Don't wanna move, it's too far.”

  
  


“Son of a bitch – ugh!” Sam, there's no other word for it, he _flops_ , all long limbs everywhere, loose dead-weight impossible to move on a good day and twice that when he's also somehow determinedly octopus-like. “Gonna kick your ass so hard you taste my toenails Sammy, move your lard.”

  
  


“Can't talk, sleeping.”

  
  


And that, apparently, was that. No amount of wriggling seemed to dislodge him and no cursing gets more than a fake snore right up against the back of Dean's neck. It shouldn't be comfortable with his fatass squeezing the air out of Dean, but he's warm where the past few nights have not been. Slowly Dean stills, and he can feel Sam's victorious smirk against his back.

  
  


“We're eating nothing but deep fried grease for a month,” Dean snarks, and a huff of a laugh makes him vaguely wish for the days when Sam still took him seriously. The last time was probably when Sam was 3 but that wasn't the point.

  
  


It's... well it's nice, really. Sam's soft breaths and the quiet thrum of his heartbeat are both singing that he's alive and here, mostly all in one piece and not too much the worse for wear for all the bits that've been missing at one time or another. The heavy weight of him makes Dean feel secure in ways he wouldn't know how to put into words even if anyone was dumb enough to ask. The AC kicks on, cooling his damp hair and his feet where they stick out, the rumble like the purr of some big cat. It isn't long before Dean's again drooping, lulled by the lure of safety.

  
  


Sam mutters something too quietly to hear, even from this close, and shifts. Another moment of quiet stillness passes, and then Sam shifts again. Dean grumbles a protest, turning his nose into the pillow. 'Sleep Sammy!' he wills silently in Sam's direction. Sam's missing brain-mojo is obvious: he doesn't sleep.

  
  


Instead he groans deep and low against Dean's neck and shifts again. His problem drags lightly across Dean's rear.

  
  


“You can't be serious.”

  
  


“Dean,” Sam mutters in reply and noses against the back of Dean's head.

  
  


“We've been non-stop moving for 40 hours!” Dean protests. “This is stop-moving time right now.”

  
  


“Deeeeean.” Someone, somewhere probably convinced Sam that that tone was seductive. To Dean it does little more than drag back memories of tiny sticky fingers tugging determinedly at his sleeve.

  
  


“No way in hell. I am not moving until I've gotten a solid 10 of shut-eye.”

  
  


“You don't have to move,” Sam says with another slow roll of his hips. Dean's traitorous, treacherous dick begins to pay attention. “Don't mind taking care of you hmm.” Hands, big hands that have broken and torn and cradled and caressed, slide up his waist, spreading wide right near his armpits, then following his arms down to his hands. The right buries under the mound of pillows to close around Dean's fist; the left rubs circles in the web between his index finger and thumb.

  
  


It's a damn cheat and if Dean had the energy he'd protest that he's not a damn girl. When Dean's on top Sam's half-wild, all blunt nails and teeth and leaving welts that linger for days. When Sam's on top? He does shit like this: stroking the callouses of Dean's hands and pressing lips over the pucker of old scars and generally making Dean flush in a very manly but still fucking humiliating way.

  
  


Dean whines and bucks back. “Fucking get on with it!”

  
  


But as big as Sam got he never outgrew his lil-shit phase. The movement does nothing more than lets him get fingers just wrapped to the front of Dean's chest, hook his thumb under Dean's arm and continue dragging his thumb in little circles around the swell of Dean's bicep. His hair tickles Dean's back when he presses kisses to the skin that passes under his thumb, once and again and again in a staccato rhythm.

  
  


And without warning his lips stop, his teeth touch down and he's sucking _hard_. By the time Dean can utter any more than a startled 'ngh!' Sam's let go, rubbing the spot with his thumb as if nothing happened. It's no place particularly erotic: it's about two inches down from his shoulder and about an inch back from the side, no particular concentration of nerves to light up. Dean chokes. His flush is a hot thing all the way down his front.

  
  


“The fuck was that!”

  
  


He tries to roll over, maybe wriggle out a bit from under Sam. His face is burning and Sam's not even gotten anywhere close to his dick and _he's not a girl_. Sam's hands flash back to his and close around his wrists.

  
  


“Said you didn't want to move Dean,” he points out, mild as plain yogurt. “Said I'd take care of you. So don't move, and I'll take care of you.”

  
  


“You have no idea how much I hate you right now,” Dean lies. There's nothing to be gained by struggling. Sure, he'll managed to clutch on to the tatters of his manly pride but if Sam for a second even imagines that Dean's not entirely 100% on-board with this he'll back the hell up as far as the freeway and Dean is so turned on right now if he doesn't get off he'll stab someone. Dean can put up with a little whatever-the-fuck this is as long as Sam doesn't plan to keep teasing him for hours.

  
  


They tried that once. Dean broke the handcuffs and slammed Sam down belly-first. The sex was fantastic but the scenario was deemed a general failure.

  
  


So Dean settles back down with ill grace and Sammy finally stops playing with his hands and arms.

  
  


A warm, wet tongue prods low on his back, and thumbs and teeth follow it. “There's a little dip here, did you know?” Sam says, and points it out by licking around the edge of it, then rolling a thumb down into the indent. “You can see it when you've got your shirt off; it's just above your beltline.” Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat that he doesn't even know the meaning of. It doesn't sound like 'that's nice now fuck me' like he intended. “I want to lick it. Every time I see it, every time you whip off your shirt or it rides up at all and it's just _there_ and I want to-”

  
  


This time it's Sam that moans, a possessive guttural thing. His mouth finds that indent and he kisses it, open-lipped and wet as if lapping at Dean's mouth. Long, clever fingers knead at Dean's ass like a contented cat. “I swear you're taunting me,” Sam growls. “You don't even know and you're taunting me. Do you _have_ to bend over like that when you're working on the car, huh? Out there in the parking lot like a goddamn cocktease.”

  
  


Dean snorts. “Sexy mechanic does it for you, yeah? And you shit on me about Dr. Sexy M.D.?”

  
  


Sam shuts him up by biting down on an ass cheek. Dean is embarrassed to realize it works really, really well. His head thunks against his pillow but it's not enough to drown out the whine. Sam's silence sounds incredibly smug. It stings when Sam drags his tongue over it, stings worse when he bites down again. Dean's given up on words. He's given up on trying to keep quiet, too. Sam lazily bites his way down the curve of Dean's ass, nosing in deep to press bites in the crease where it meets his thigh and licking idly at the dimples in the very apex of them. The whole right side of his rear is burning as hot as his face and Sam seems to be in no rush at all.

  
  


He should have seen it coming. Worse he _did_ see it coming, in that abstract way that fluttered through his brain and flew right away the next time Sam's teeth pressed down. So he knew it was coming, kind of, and so there was no reason at all why he should have squealed when Sam bit on the sensitive edge of his sphincter. Both of them froze.

  
  


“You say something?” Sam laughs.

  
  


“Shut it bitch!” Dean flails and sputters vainly. Sam's just at the right position to dodge slaps aimed for his head and when Dean finds his wrist caught and twisted up against his back, he regrets teaching him that very move.

  
  


“Tsk tsk, Dean,” the fucker says, like anyone outside of bad fanfiction 'tsks'. “Not while I'm eating.”

  
  


Dean groans, but at the pun this time. His next, however, is not. Sam laps around the edges until Dean writhes and swears. He wields his teeth as much as his tongue, tempting Dean with the tiny thrill of danger from it. He laps and nibbles and _fucks_ , spearing his tongue deep one moment without warning, and the next dragging it over and over across the opening until it softens under him. Dean tenses up only a little when one finger is added but it's hard to stay that way with Sammy moaning against his hole like a starving man over a cheeseburger.

  
  


A second finger nudges against the first and this time Dean's slap does connect, if only glancingly.

  
  


“Lube bitch, don't know what you think you're planning on sticking back there without slick but I will _break you_.” Dean's watched porn, of course he has. He's seen spit and dish soap and gun oil and all manner of foodstuffs used as lubricant and his general opinion is, in no particular order, 'shitfuckow', 'whatfuckwhy?', 'ohfuckno' and ' _that's how you get ants!'_ Sam can grumble all he fucking wants about killing the mood: the only thing you use as lubricant is _lubricant_. They've never had an emergency-sex-situation where they've had to fuck _right now_ in an industrial kitchen and the only thing available was a can of Crisco, and they never will.

  
  


Sam complies with only minimal bitching and it's not like the erection he's been rubbing against the back of Dean's leg flagged at all in the ten seconds it took him to rustle up a bottle of slick from one of their duffle bags. Dean cackles at the put-upon look on his face, and it breaks into a gasp when Sam slaps him hard, open handed across the span of bite marks littering his ass. His face stills into something speculative and dark, and he tilts his head. Just a quirk, just an 'oh' and an 'interesting', and Dean stutters.

  
  


“Next time,” he promises. Sam's eyes drag up to meet his and they're blown wide with possibility. Dean whines. “Next time, I swear. Come on Sammy fuck me, please.” It takes a pained handful of seconds before Sam nods shortly. Before Dean can so much as summon the inclination to sigh in relief, his hand comes down again, hard and fast and just once, but fingers spread wide for maximum sting. Dean's keen nearly drowns out Sam's 'holding you to that'.

  
  


Its no longer about teasing Dean, but while Sam's motions are practiced and efficient, they aren't rushed. Two fingers, then three pump in and out, stretching and scissoring as they go. Sometimes Sam licks around them, sometimes he bites or licks or sucks on any span of skin, back, ass, thighs, that pass under his mouth. Sometimes he whispers things that Dean can barely hear, things about how fucking gorgeous he was when he was startled, how Sam loves the way his ass blushes, how he cannot _wait_ to find out what Dean's like under a hand. Maybe a belt, he suggests, maybe the same belt still threaded through Sam's jeans, abandoned in a corner of the bathroom. It's the cadence and tone, rather than the words themselves, that have Dean moaning and rocking back against his brother. Sam's good at shit like that, good at bending words to get what he wants and Dean's never been immune.

  
  


Sam presses in like it was inevitable, and to Dean it feels like coming home. Sam's got words enough for both of them; when they're like this – never when they're face-to-face, never then but sometimes when Dean can't see Sam's eyes – Sam'll tell Dean how pretty he is, how good he is, how well he takes it, how much Sam _loves_ him like this. Always, always Dean wants to cry out, scream at him to stop but something claws up his throat and cuts the words off. And Sam will keep whispering to Dean's hair: good boy, so fucking sweet, Dean baby mmm I love you so much.

  
  


Dean comes first.

  
  


Sam's got fingers raking though the sweat-curled short hairs on his neck, he's halfway between a 'sweetheart' and a wordless moan. His hips are stuttering in his pace and his voice sounds like praying and crying. He knows Dean's body the way Dean knows his, knows how to hit Dean's prostate, and how to not hit it every time if he wants Dean to last more than a second or two. Dean's flat down against the sheets, feet flung wide, hands tangled tight in the mess he's made of the pillows and where his ass meets his back creasing deep with every thrust. He turns his head, and Sammy's teeth finds his ear and demands ' _mine_ ' and bites down and Dean comes hard.

  
  


Dean doesn't white-out during orgasm. Things get sharper, brighter but sounds echo and roll like they're down a far tunnel. He doesn't know what he yells that curls Sam's fingers, sharp and desperate to bite bruises into his shoulder but he's only seconds down from that too-bright-echo before Sam's hissing and growling his own release. Dean's hearing comes back to a chanted 'fuckfuckfuck' and Sam drops, much like he did earlier, boneless against Dean's back.

  
  


For a moment they just breathe. Sam's cheek is pressed to Dean's shoulder, stuck with sweat and the bit of saliva that always curls up in the left corner of his lips when he gets messy with kisses. Dean's heart's racing like he's run a marathon and the exhaustion follows quickly.

  
  


“Love you,” Sam murmurs again and Dean garbles something he means to sound like 'sure princess' but apparently ends up being more 'me too'. He tries something else, something like 'get off I'm sticky', but Sam must hear 'please don't go anywhere my brand new ovaries want to cuddle, just roll us somewhere dry'.

  
  


Dean dozes off, still bitching, with Sam curled up like the world's smuggest cat on his chest.


End file.
